Two worlds
by Bittermahogany
Summary: Bits and pieces of the life of Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne


Clark Kent is eight years old when he finds out he's adopted; that his Ma and Pa aren't really his Ma and Pa and his birth parents didn't want him or didn't have a choice of want. He cries after this revelation, hides in the barn and doesn't go back home until his tummy is hurting from hunger. Even then he doesn't stop sniffling until Ma places his favorite dish (Apple pie) on his plate and Pa promises to read him his favorite bedtime story (the one with the astronauts on a space adventure and the alien princess). By the time his parents tuck him in, an "I love you," on their mouths and a kiss to each cheek, Clark knows, even if their not his birth parents, they love him.

He is loved. And that is all that he needs.

* * *

Bruce Wayne is eight years old when he witnesses his mother and father's death. They're shot in what feels like slow motion, but all too soon he's on his knees begging for life in corpses, the thug's escaped but all he wants, all he _needs_, is for his parent's to _wake_ up. There's blood on the ground and his mother's favorite necklace is broken, the white pearls coated in red. He doesn't get up until Alfred comes, the bodies of his parents covered with a white sheet that does nothing to wipe out the memory of their unresponsive faces.

He is inconsolable for weeks afterwards, even though Alfred tries his best in the mansion that is too empty for just the two of them. Every room is haunted, the memories of his mother playing piano in the drawing room makes him cover his ears as he goes past, and the memories of his father pointing things out in the library tempts him to never pick up a book again. The painting in the foyer room though, is too much, it's of them, smiling and content, and after he comes home from the funeral he stares at it for two hours. Just staring. Alfred comes by and insists he go to bed but Bruce doesn't mind him. Bruce is only focused on the portrait of his deceased parents.

He could almost hear his father explaining the portrait.

_"We had this done when you were still in your mother's stomach, just three month's old." His father said, a smile on his face as he looked at the large painting. There was fondness in his eyes as he looked at it. "A bit egotistical to put on display but your mother insisted on it; had to sit still for an hour ." Bruce had looked at it, seen his parent's pleasant smiles frozen in time and asked, "Can we do one all together, with Alfred and me?"_

_And his father looked at him, all fondness in brown eyes and said, "Of course we can."_

They never did, and now they never will.

And looking at the portrait, his father with his carefully combed raven hair and warm brown eyes; his best suit on and his arm lovingly wound across his mother's shoulder - and his mother, brown hair and dark blue eyes, a smile that could light a room and her favorite pearl necklace on, her hands resting carefully on his stomach where he was - he knew. He knew.

He knew that he'll never be loved like he was the center of someone's world again. Not in the way he so crucially needed.

* * *

Clark is fifteen when he finds about his powers. More so that he isn't exactly human. Ma and Pa said he was human enough, even if he landed on Earth in a spaceship during a meteor shower. He believes them.

His powers are hard to control, seemingly many, and he panics a little when he accidentally throws a tractor fifteen feet in the air. His parent's don't (maybe a little) and with their help he gets a hold of it. He can see far and sometimes through things, he can lift things that are too heavy for some machines, he can _fly_, super senses, he can even freeze things with his breath. It's daunting and Ma warns him to never use his powers for bad, goes out of her way to get him non-prescription glasses to help with his 'disguise.'

"_You can't outdo the kids at school Clark, they'll suspect. I know you want to fly off sometimes and school might be a little boring but you can't show off._"

It's confusing and difficult and forget puberty that everyone else his age is experiencing, this is much worse.

"I have to do _something_." There's a fire at the Jenkin's and there's the sound of sirens but Clark could see from here that there's a kid - Grant, he sees suddenly through the smoke a mile away - stuck in the barn and the infrastructure is failing. He knows they won't get there in time.

"Clark, you don't have full control of your powers. You could get hurt." His mother's worried and he knows he shouldn't do that, he was raised better than that, but he was also raised to do the right thing.

"Listen to your mother. We don't want you to get hurt Clark."

"I know, but I have to do this." The building was creaking, he could hear it from here. Before they could say anything he's off, faster than a bullet train, off to the Jenkin's barn. The fire is nothing but a tickle to him and he finds Grant coughing and sweating in the middle of the barn.

He picks up the kid and before Grant even registers someone's holding him, has him outside in the fresh air where the paramedics can see him.

He's back on his farm in a second and is greeted by his mother's loving hug and a pat on the back from his father.

"You did good Clark."

"No one saw you, did they?"

"No Ma." He says loyally and as his Mother draws back and his Father looks at him and wipes that curl, the one curl that always seems to want to gravitate to the middle of his face, away, he knows they're proud of him.

* * *

Bruce is fifteen when he witnesses another murder by gun (always guns). As the future head of Wayne Enterprises and a member of the social élite it was prudent that he get used to galas and the other corporation heads he might make deals with in the future. Or at least that's what Alfred said to convince him to get out of the manor for once.

He felt a little sorry for Alfred, stuck babysitting a boy who was so broken, but faced with the results of what happened if he let Alfred go; the men and women who would vie for his guardianship if the spot was open. He found he couldn't let the butler go. (And maybe it wasn't just the matter of Alfred being the only one stopping the onslaught of legal guardianship battle but the only true family he had left.)

Nonetheless, he was at a social event, alone with a water bottle in hand and seemingly the only teenager that didn't flaunt or brag about their heritage. He's just thinking of leaving when he sees it, a silver glint that isn't a sparkly jewel but a gun, pressed into the back of a wealthy man Bruce only knew because Mother and Father used to invite him to their own yearly party.

He stares at the gun, mesmerized, as if it's pointed at him instead. He's having a panic attack, he knows when the water bottle falls out of his lax hands, his mind is leaving the Gala behind and returning to an alleyway where two bodies are on the ground lifeless and one boy is left alone. When he returns, at the sound of gunshot, the man is on the floor and the accused, a waiter who curses in a foreign language, is already in handcuffs.

But he stares at the man on the floor covered in blood and he already knows it's too late.

He wonders if the man had kids. He can't seem to remember now.

"I should have done something!" He cursed, the Gala ended early, all the socialites gossiping about who'll take over the company in tones less of concern and more calculating. It made him vaguely sick because he remembered when that gossip surrounded him and the future of Wayne name.

"I saw it, I saw the gun and I panicked! I should have-"

"What should you have done Master Bruce?" Alfred coolly interrupts, his voice nothing but flat curiosity. "Alert the cops? The man would've shot him before they arrived. Tell someone else? He had a gun, he would've taken the ballroom as a hostage. There was nothing you or anyone else could have done." Alfred always the voice of reason. But Bruce didn't want to listen to reason.

"I just stared." Bruce's fist were clenched, his outfit in total disarray, Alfred would have mother henned him if it weren't for the situation. "I should have done something."

"And might I ask again Master Bruce: What should you have done? What _would_ you have done?"

Bruce doesn't answer and Alfred's subtle 'It's alright,' don't help. He knows in the back of his brain that Alfred's correct, the man almost always is, but that doesn't wash away the guilt and the shame.

* * *

Clark is seventeen years old and straight out of the local high school. He won a writing contest a month back and now he's heading to Metropolis to intern at the Daily Planet. He's nervous, but Ma and Pa have already wished him luck and hopefully that will be all he needs. He opens his lunch on the train ride over and isn't slightly surprised when the aroma of homemade Apple pie hits his nose behind lead foil.

He adjusts his glasses that he doesn't really need and when he finally steps out to the big city tries to look less like a super-powered being and more like a country boy who's never seen anything more complex than a tractor in his life - but also not _too_ country because first impressions are always important.

He's gotten control of his powers and when Perry White shakes his hand in a firm grip before ordering him to get coffee he's proud of his restraint. But before he knows it _everyone_'s asking for coffee and to retrieve copies and deliveries, calling him not his name but his hometown Smallville. After a week of this he stops supplying his name and resigns himself to responding to it and doesn't necessarily work hard all the time but shortens it a little using super speed.

He still uses his power for saving people, makes sure no one sees him as he stops a robbery with a well-timed heat ray, saves a cat from a high tree with some flying. He doesn't know what Metropolis will bring him. The moving lights, the tall buildings, it's all new but refreshing. He can't really see the stars from here, not like back home, but there's something in his mind that whispers he doesn't need to see the stars. As if he somehow belongs.

* * *

Bruce is seventeen years old and straight out of the best private school of Gotham. He ignores the scholarships and university invitations in the mail and announces that he's taking a tour of Europe for a few years. That's close enough to the truth.

He wakes up early in the summer morning, grabs his suitcase and does not say goodbye to Alfred on his way to the airport, merely calls for a cab and leaves. Just as the plane's about to take off he checks his suitcase for his flight information and isn't slightly surprised by the plastic container he did not pack containing meticulously prepared food from Alfred and a hand-written note.

He saves the food for later but reads the note. It's nothing remarkably personal, from another person's point of view it would seem strictly professional, an appropriate letter from a butler to a master.

But Bruce has lived with Alfred since birth and as he reads he knows Alfred is worrying, but he also knows Alfred understands that Bruce isn't a normal person and hasn't been since he was eight. The last paragraph brings a pang to his chest, makes him almost consider getting off the plane and continuing his life as who he is now.

Instead he folds the paper neatly back up and tucks it into the envelope and closes his suitcase. As the plane takes off Bruce doesn't look back towards Gotham. Doesn't say goodbye to the stone arches or the people or his own namesake shining in the darkness.

It's not that Gotham will always have a place in his heart (though it does, in this twisted way). It's that he knows he'll return and that right now he doesn't belong. Bruce Wayne as he is now does not belong in Gotham and he will not return until he does.

* * *

Clark Kent is Superman. He's twenty when he first dons the costume (made by his mother with his Krypton clan on the front, his cape is the same blanket they found him bundled in) and he's not even legal to drink but he's fighting crime like he has all his life. Like he should be, his heart says.

Ma and Pa are proud, they call him after his first television appearance and it echoes in his mind days later. His mother is worried about his identity and despite no mask over his face his identity is safe and after several TV appearances as both Clark and Superman Ma lets it go. Either way he takes his mother's worry to heart and makes sure to be more unnoticeable as Clark Kent, more clumsy and awkward. No one equates bumbling Smallville to confident Superman

There's only one person who's come close to finding out, Lois Lane, but she dismisses her own theory and their visual similarities with a, "No way Smallville is Superman." And leaves it at that. He doesn't know if he should be insulted or grateful so instead he just says, "Who knows, maybe I am." with an indignant tone and a hint of hope - and rolls his eyes while she laughs hysterically.

They take to calling him Superman which is a little too much but it sticks, with Lois's headline of _Savior_ _Superman, _and overtime it becomes less about praise and more of a moniker, an identity which feels right to him after a few months. He's becoming a hit, a hero, and it's hard work between being Clark Kent the fumbling reporter and Superman the confident hero. But it's worth it.

* * *

Batman is Bruce Wayne. He's twenty when he first dons the costume (a bright smile and a carefree attitude and the intelligence of a gnat with a penchant for young women) and he's not legal to drink but he's just come back from Europe and he's rich and can do anything he wants, so he does (except he doesn't really, doesn't anything that would hinder his mind).

No one knows that Bruce Wayne, playboy billionaire and the elusive Batman are one and the same. They're opposites in almost every sense. One man comes close to finding out, Commissioner Gordon. He's annoyingly persistent in his investigation, Bruce would've given him props, as it is the man has his respect for all that he orders his men to shoot at Batman.

The investigation doesn't stop until the commissioner has solid proof in the form of carefully photoshopped pictures and very well-paid witnesses. While it is a relief to not have to put up the Brucie persona in his own house there's also disappointment - Gordon's belief of false evidence - no matter that they were the most well put-together fakes he could produce, is alarming.

Alfred is not approving of his new lifestyle, between the crime fighting and the constant negative spotlight. But Batman isn't for Alfred, it isn't for Bruce or Brucie, it's for Gotham and the Alfred at least understands that. (But the look on his face while he stitches up Bruce, it's rock solid neutral but there's a pinch in his brow and his sarcasm is not as full as it would be. He'll get over it.)

Batman's a wanted vigilante, his interference isn't wanted by the cops and he's feared by everyone, thugs and civilians, a myth that will take you in the night.

He's not the hero Gotham wants but he's what she _needs_. It's hard work between being Brucie Wayne, the millionaire with loose morals and Batman the myth of night. But it's worth it.

* * *

Clark Kent, reporter for the Daily Planet, is twenty-two when he meets Bruce Wayne. The man is shallow and flirtatious. He comes late to his own party and has a girl on each arm. Clark was assigned to write about the Charity Ball and Perry clearly said he wanted him to interview Bruce Wayne but looking at the man who reeks of alcohol, he doesn't want to.

Instead he wants to be away from this ball and the politics that surround it, the calculating looks and the apathetic regard to the real reason they're all gathered. Doesn't want to listen to the idiocy that is Bruce Wayne whose conversation with the girls on his arms is no doubt obscene.

But Perry's been irritable lately and if he doesn't get at least one quote from Bruce Wayne for this story he knows he'll be stuck reporting little community events for the next three weeks.

So he sucks in a breath, plasters his best Clark Kent 'country boy' smile on and wades through the crowd with "I'm sorry," and "Please, excuse me." As he purposely bumps to a few people.

* * *

Bruce Wayne, Billionaire Playboy, is twenty-two when he meets Clark Kent. He's arrived an hour late to his own party, per usual. (Except this time it's not calculated delay. There was a hostage situation down Six Street and the men had guns pointed) and he reeks of alcohol (wiped on his clothes, his suit disheveled). There's two women in his arms that attached to him the moment he entered and he talks to them though he doesn't remember their names or if they even introduced themselves to him. Which is perfect because Bruce Wayne isn't meant to remember names. (But the Bat side of him needs to know everything and so he promises to himself later he'll search their names later. Their intentions are clear though, a little time in the limelight, and so he does not mind these strangers hanging off his arm.)

Out of the peripheral of his eye he can see a man watching him; from the food table. He's got glasses on his nose that look ancient and cheap and so does his suit. He doesn't belong here, Bruce knows, sticks out like a sore thumb in the light of the chandelier, the expensive caviar and lobster imported from France probably wasted on him. The man, Bruce notes, has a pen in his breast pocket, a spiral from a notepad sticking out, and an ID badge.

Reporter.

And coming right for him, walking through the crowd in a fashion reminiscent of a beheaded chicken.

Bruce check himself for any weakness in his façade and as the reporter reaches him he's full on Brucie Wayne.

The man introduces himself as, "Clark Kent, from the Daily Planet," with an uncomfortable smile and a voice that says, "I'm from the country and I was probably raised with apple pies and called my parents Ma and Pa." Bruce does not show anything. Just smiles and clasps the man's hands, a hand that is without callous and is surprisingly soft; a city boy's hands for all that he sounds from the country.

He notices Clark Kent does not look into Bruce's general direction as he pulls out his notepad, instead his hunched figure stares at the paper.

Bruce can't put his finger on it but he dislikes Clark Kent immensely in a way that has nothing to do with small pet peeves.

Before Clark Kent, country bumpkin, can ask a question, the building rocks and people scream and they run off in different directions.


End file.
